


The Silent Crusade

by generalsleepy



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Coming of Age, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Medieval Medicine, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-06-21 01:04:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15546192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/generalsleepy/pseuds/generalsleepy
Summary: Diarmuid goes back for the Mute. Miraculously, they both survive. As the Mute heals and they prepare to return to the monastery, the two men have no choice but to reflect on the nature of the unbreakable bond between them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some tags won't appear until later chapters.

"Where to now?"

Diarmuid stood at the stern of the boat, staring at the faraway shore. The old man's words were faint in his ears, barely rising above the lapping of the water that had just swallowed Brother Geraldus and the Relic. All receded as his eyes locked on the four figures standing in the sand. Three clad in black and gray stood apart, facing the fourth—the Mute. He was unsteady on his feet. The meager sunlight seemed to shine off his bare back.

Diarmuid's throat was tight. Even if he knew how to respond to the sailor's question, he didn't think that he could have made the works come.

On the shore the Mute fell to his knees. Diarmuid's fists clenched, his muscles tensing. His breath caught in his chest. He could hear the Mute's labored breathing in his ears, as though he were standing right beside him—as though the man's body was huddled over his, covering him, protecting him.

The clouds broke, and a beam of light fell on them like a spear from Heaven. Diarmuid squinted, but the glare off the water hid the men on shore from view.

"Boy?" the sailor prompted.

Diarmuid shut his eyes. He took a deep breath, filling himself with air from his fingertips to his toes. He let his arms hang limp by his side.

He'd touched the stone, and he hadn't died. He'd held it above his head to hurl it into the water, and he hadn't died. In the forest, in the midst of battle, the Mute had covered his bdoy with his own, and neither of them had died.

If faith wasn't what he felt in that moment, he didn't know what faith was supposed to be.

"I'm sorry," he said. He grabbed the back of his cowl, pulled it over his head, and tossed it aside. He next undid his belt.

"What are you doing?" the sailor demanded.

Diarmuid ignored him as he swiftly shed first his scapular, then his tunic. The cold bit at his exposed skin, but the pain barely registered. He tugged off his shoes and stockings, leaving only his underclothes.

"Stop it!" The sailor's voice was full of alarm, but he didn't move to stop him, probably out of fear of upsetting the boat. "Boy, whatever you're thinking of doing—"

"I'm sorry, brother," he said. His voice was small, but it didn't falter. "Go with God."

He heard only the first breath of the sailor's shout before he jumped off the boat.

The icy water immediately stole away his breath. It was a struggle not to instinctively gasp and draw water into his lungs. For a second, he didn't know whether even free of his robes, he would be able to propel himself to the surface. Mustering all his strength, though, he swam up to the light. Just as his lungs felt like they were about to burst, his head broke though the open air.

He gasped for breath as he whipped his head around. His eyes fixed on the shore. He could make out only three dark figures now, but he knew the fourth was still there somewhere.

"You damn fool!" the sailor shouted. "Come back to the boat!"

Without looking back, he started to swim to shore. The sailor's cries receded; all he could hear was the water, his jagged breathing, and the heavy, frantic beat of his heart.

His arms and legs ached from the effort. His muscles screamed, the cold threatened to paralyze him, but he kept swimming. The pain didn't matter. All that mattered was reaching the shore. After that, after he was with him...

It was in God's hands.

He was only faintly aware of the progress it was making. It took all he had left in him just to to move forward. It wasn't until his feet hit mud that he realized he'd reached the shore.

Gasping and spluttering, he tramped through the shallow water. The beach was strewn with bodies, white sand stained red. The two Normans stood with swords in hand, staring at him. Diarmuid ignored them. All that he cared about was the Mute, lying face down in the sand. Diarmuid dropped to his knees beside him. The Mute didn't move.

_Don't be dead. Please, please. Not now. Not yet. Not like this._

He pressed his palm to the broad, scarred back. His skin was cold, but Diarmuid could feel him breathing.

_Thank God. Deo gratias, Deo gratias._

The man stirred. Slowly, he turned his head to look up at Diarmuid. His face was covered in blood. His dark eyes widened as he recognized Diarmuid.

Diarmuid only then realized that he was crying.

"It's all right," he said. His voice was ragged and pained. "It's me. It's me."

Slowly but urgently, as if it took all of his strength, the Mute shook his head. He turned his eyes to the sea. Diarmuid knew he was telling him to run, to save himself.

He shook his head. "No. I'm not leaving you." He cast a quick glance up at the three remaining Norman soldiers. They hadn't moved from where they stood. From behind their helmets, he thought that he saw expressions of confusion. It didn't matter to Diarmuid. He carefully laid himself down in the sand beside the Mute. He put an arm over his back. He pressed his forehead against his, as he had so many times before. He stared into the other man's eyes as they shared the same breath.

He shut his eyes. "I love you," he whispered.

The body beside him shifted. Chapped, blood-stained lips brushed against his. Diarmuid met the kiss. He was shaking, his throat burning with suppressed sobs. The Mute's hand found his. He was too weak to do more than touch, so Diarmuid had to grasp his hand tight.

They lay there silently, waiting for the swords to fall on them.

Diarmuid waited. And waited. His heart was pounding and his stomach clenched painfully. The waiting was so agonizing, he was begging for the inevitable to come and for death to claim them. He just hoped that it would be quick. He wanted the Mute's pain to be over and for them to be together forever in Heaven.

He finally heard footsteps in the sand. Even as he couldn't help but feel relieved, his body body tensed. The Mute found the strength to grasp Diarmuid's hand.

It took a few moments for him to realize that the footsteps were moving away, not toward them.

In confusion, he looked up to see the soldiers walking away from them. He blinked, unsure of what he was seeing. As Diarmuid watched, they kept walking until the crunch of sand underfoot faded. The men turned and walked back into the woods where they had come from. Finally, they disappeared behind the trees. Diarmuid blinked, unsure of what he was seeing. When he looked down at the Mute, though, his stomach lurched. The Mute's eyes were shut and his mouth slack. Diarmuid shook his arm. He didn't respond. 

"No." His voice cracked. "Please, please, wake up! They're gone. Please!"

Somewhere behind them, something hit the shore. Diarmuid didn't process it, unable to focus on anything but holding the Mute and pleading and praying as tears ran down his face.

"Boy!" He recognized the sailor's voice only as he was running toward them. He grabbed Diarmuid's shoulder. "What in the hell were you thinking, you little fool?!"

Diarmuid looked up at him. "Please! We have to help him!"

The man's mouth hung open. "Child... I think he might be beyond saving now."

"No!" Diarmuid ducked his head down, so his cheek was almost against the Mute's lips. He closed his eyes and silently prayed. The faintest breath touched his skin.

"He's alive!" His head snapped up. "He's still breathing! We can't just leave him."

The sailor dropped to his knees. He took the Mute's arm and pressed his fingers to the Mute's wrist. His eyes widened, and an expression of urgency took over his face. "Help me turn him over."

Diarmuid struggled to his knees to roll the Mute onto his back. The Mute let out a groan as he was moved. Diarmuid gasped at the sight of the black metal spike sticking out of his gut, the same weapon Raymond had used to murder Brother Ciaran.

"Don't pull it out!" he shouted, before the sailor had even moved. "Don't pull it out!"

"I wasn't going to. Listen, there's a village nearby. I don't know how much they can do for him, but they can do something. We need to get him into the boat. You grab his legs."

They both jumped to their feet. The sailor hooked his arms under the Mute's armpits. Diarmuid did his best to lift the Mute by his legs, but, exhausted from the swim, he barely kept the limp body off the ground. The sailor did most of the work lifting him into the grounded boat.

"Get in. I'll be back in just a moment."

Diarmuid followed his instructions, kneeling at the stern by the Mute's head. He heard the sailor walking away, but couldn't tear his eyes away from the Mute's face. He was covered in blood; Diarmuid didn’t know how much was his own and how much belonged to the fallen Normans. He couldn’t count the wounds littering his body, a body that had already suffered so much.

He leaned down at an awkward angle to press his forehead to the Mute’s. “Please,” he whispered. “Please.”

He barely noticed as the sailor getting back into the boat, as his attention was focused on the man in his lap and where their skin touched. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he prayed harder than he thought he ever had in his life.

_O kind and good Mother, whose own soul was pierced by the sword of sorrow, look upon us while, in our sickness..._

_Please. Please, I'll do anything. Just let him live. I need him._

_I love him._


	2. Chapter 2

"We're almost there."

Diarmuid nodded without looking up from the Mute. The man's head was resting in his lap, Diarmuid occasionally brushing hair off of his forehead or leaning down to press a kiss to the far-too clammy skin. He felt like he couldn't take his eyes off of him, or he would stop breathing. He had at least stopped crying. His lips moved silently in a stream of prayer. It was all that he could do. 

The boat jostled. It took Diarmuid a moment to realize that the sailor had gotten out of the boat and was pulling it to shore. "I need some help! There's a man hurt here! Don't worry boy, it'll be alright."

Diarmuid wrenched his gaze up. The sailor was pulling the boat up onto a beach by a rope. He knew that he should get out and help, but he couldn't drag himself away from the Mute

He stroked the man's cheek. "We're here," he whispered. "You're going to be alright."

"What in the hell?" a man's voice shouted. Diarmuid glanced up to see a handful of men rushing over to the boat.

"I'll explain later," the sailor said. "This man's hurt. We need to get him to Órlaith's."

"What about the boy?"

"Please, help him!" Diarmuid exclaimed, not caring about the high, desperate note to his voice. 

"I told you I'll explain. Now, just help me get him up. Fergus, Lugaid, Bróccan, help me."

The men surged forward, reaching for the Mute. He knew it was foolish, but Diarmuid instinctively wanted to hold him close. He forced himself to let go."

"Crundmáel," the sailor ordered. "You take care of the boy."

One of the men hooked his arms under Diarmuid's and heaved him up and out of the boat. "There you go, boy."

"You have to help him!" Diarmuid shouted as he watched four men lift the Diarmuid up and start carrying him. "Please!"

"I'm sure they'll take good care of him," the man said in a deep voice, trying to be reassuring.  

The man more dragged than led him off the beach. They were in a village made up of a few simple houses and huts. Men and women were looking up from their work at fires or looms. More women and a few children came out to gape at the newcomers.

An woman with gray-streaked hair ran up to them. “Crundmáel,” she said breathlessly. “What’s going on? Who is this?" 

“Cormac brought them,” the man said. “He said they were attacked by Normans. This one seems fine; the other one’s in trouble.”

The mention of the Mute stirred Diarmuid, giving him the energy to stand on his own. “Where is he?”

“Settle down, boy. They’re going to fix your friend up. They’ll take good care of him. Don’t worry yourself.”

“Well, hurry, bring him in,” the woman said.

Diarmuid let himself be steered toward a small, wooden house, even as he desperately wanted to be at the Mute’s side, wherever he was.

Inside, Crundmáel led him to a cot and sat him down. “There we are.”

“Put something on him,”the woman said. “Poor little thing is freezing to death.” She was right. Diarmuid was shivering down to his very bones, cold prickling at every inch of his still-damp skin. He also, as ridiculous as he recognized it was in the situation, couldn’t help but feel embarrassed at being nearly nude, especially in front of a woman.

“Right.” Crundmáel draped a heavy, woolen blanket over Diarmuid’s shoulders. He wrapped it tight around him and put the edges in his hands. Diarmuid gripped it and snuggled into the warmth provided by the blanket.

“Thank you,” he said, hoping he could be understood over the chattering of his teeth. “God bless you, sir. God bless you, ma’am.”

“Where in the world did you come from, boy?” Crundmáel said. He knelt down in front of the bed and roughly rubbed Diarmuid’s arms to warm them up.

“I... I’m a monk.”

“You’re a monk!” the woman repeated in surprise. She was leaning over a dying fire, ladling something out of an iron pot. “You must be far away from home, dear.”

“Yes.” _Home_. He’d crossed the horizon where he’d given up on remembering home. He couldn’t let himself imagine it yet. Home was too far. Home was another country.

“Here.” She pushed a cup into his hands. “Lucky you came here just after supper. It’s not piping hot anymore, but at least it’ll warm you up a little.”

“Thank you.” He brought the cup to his lips with trembling fingers. She was right; the warm broth was wonderful on his parched tongue and frozen insides. He drank greedily.

“There we go, boy. Drink up.”

 He repeated his thanks once he’d emptied the cup.

The woman smiled as she took it from him and pulled the blanket tighter. “It’s the least we can do for a man of the cloth. For any Christian soul who ended up on our doorstep. Crundmáel, his face must be freezing. Get him in the bed.”

“Right. Come on, little one. You look like you’re about to fall asleep where you’re sitting.” Crundmáel lifted up Diarmuid’s legs and tried to lay him down on the cot.

Diarmuid tensed. “No… My friend…”

“Don’t worry,” the woman said. “Cormac probably brought him to Mother Órlaith. She and her helpers will take good care of him. Rest now.”

Diarmuid laid down on the bed, still shaking his head. He needed to be with the Mute. He’d done so much to be with him. Neither of them would be safe until they were together. But, he was so tired. His muscles sagged and his breathing slowed. 

“Please,” he said. “Please, look after him. He’s…”

“We’ll look after your friend, boy,” the woman said. “God will take care of someone so dear to one of his servants.”

Diarmuid opened his mouth.

“Shh.” She put her hand on his forehead. “It’s alright. Rest. You’ll do no one any good straining yourself.” She arranged a blanket over him.

“You’ll…” Now that he was lying down, it was hard to deny the exhaustion weighing down his body. “You’ll tell me if anything happens?”

“Absolutely.”

“Thank you. God bless you.” With one last deep breath, he lost the fight with sleep.

* * *

 

Diarmuid startled awake with someone shaking his shoulder.

A man was looking down at him. It took Diarmuid a moment to realize it was the sailor who had rescued him and a moment after that to remember where they were.

“Welcome back,” he said. “You’ve been asleep about half a day, if you wanted to know. I’ve brought you some food and proper clothes.”

Diarmuid struggled to sit up. “Where is my friend? How is he?”

“I had a feeling that would be the first thing you would ask.” The main laid a bundle of clothes  on Diarmuid’s lap and pressed a hunk of bread into his hands. “He’s sleeping now. I wouldn’t say that he’s out of the woods yet, but he seems better. Mother Órlaith is doing all she can.”

“Mother…?”

“She takes care of the sick and wounded in the village. She knows more about how to heal than anyone else. She might not be the sort of woman you’d approve of, but she’s the best hope your friend has.”

All that the sailor had to say was that this woman was helping the Mute, and Diarmuid would get on his knees and pray for her with all his heart. God would protect them through whatever means.

Realizing how famished he was, he started cramming bread into his mouth as fast as he could.

“What’s your name, boy?”

With an effort, Diarmuid swallowed. “Diarmuid. Brother Diarmuid.”

“And your friend? What is he called?”

“I don’t know.”

The sailor raised an eyebrow.

“He’s a mute. Several years ago, he washed up on the beach by our monastery in a boat. We nursed him back to health, and he’s helped us at the monastery ever since. He hasn’t said a word, but he’s a good man.” Diarmuid’s throat tightened. “He’s a very good man.”

“And you have no idea what he did before you found him? How he learned to fight like he did on that beach?”

Diarmuid shook his head. “No. We decided that that was between him and the Lord.”  He took another bite of bread, chewed, and swallowed. “What is your name?”

“Cormac.”

“Cormac, I’m sorry about your friend. I know that it was us who put you into danger. It was our—” No, he couldn’t place blame on the dead. “It was my fault. I am so sorry.”

Cormac was silent a long while. “We chose to take your money, when it was obvious you were in trouble. We should have wondered why you were so desperate. I can’t blame you for trying to save your own lives.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“You’re a monk, right? Well, his name was Domnall. You can pray for his soul.”

“I will.”

Diarmuid finished the bread in silence, shivering but more concerned with hunger than cold.

Once he finished, Cormac instructed, “Now get those clothes on right away or you’ll catch your death. And, while you do, I want to know exactly what how you and your friend got here, from the very beginning.”

Diarmuid hesitated. “It’s a very long story.”

“I don’t mind.”

He took a deep breath. He pulled the tunic over his head, then began telling Cormac about the nature of the Relic. As he dressed, he continued through Brother Geraldus' arrival, their meeting with the Normans, the attack by the raiders, Raymond’s arrival, up until the events in the marshes. By the end of the story, he had put on a tunic, trouser, cloak, stockings and shoes. As he spoke, his throat tightened and his eyest stung. He couldn’t hold back tears when he came to describing Brother Ciarán’s death. He could still hear his brother’s cries, still see the entrails being torn out of his belly.

The memories were crushing. It hurt just to remember the day at the monastery before Brother Geraldus' arrival. They had been fools to ever leave. Sometimes, having grown up in the monastery since he was a small child, he had wondered about the outside world, though meeting the Mute had lessened that. Now he realized he never should have questioned  the home and the family that God provided him.

“You’d done so much for the relic, and you still threw it into the sea.”

_Along with a man_. He shoved back the ugly, painful thought. “We’d done so much for nothing. If God had truly blessed the Relic and our pursuit for it, it wouldn’t have caused so much pain. It wouldn’t have cost so many good Christian lives.”

Cormac nodded slowly. “I can’t say that I’d disagree with you.”

“Thank you for your hospitality, Cormac. My friend and I are both grateful.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began. “I once turned away men of the cloth. I only changed my mind for jewels. Maybe God punished me for that. Maybe I need to do something to make it up.” He continued quickly, as if worried Diarmuid would put something in. “Besides, it’s mainly Crundmáel and Múireann’s hospitality you’re enjoying.” 

“Múireann is his wife?”

“Yes. You’re lucky to have ended up with them. You’ll never find two more kind, Christian souls. They’re not going to let you out of their clutches until they’re sure you don’t need anymore caring for.”

“Sir, may I see my friend?”

Cormac paused a moment. “That’ll be up to Mother Órlaith, but I think she’ll let you see him.”

“Now?” He didn’t bother to hide the flash of excitement in his voice.

He nodded. “I’ll take you there.” Cormac helped him to his feet, then led him out of the hut.

Out in the open, he was momentarily blinded by the sun; he would have wandered in any random direction if not for Cormac’s hand on his back. When the multi-colored splotches had faded from his vision, he could see villages staring at them as they passed by. Feeling awkward, Diarmuid kept his head down.

They stopped at a hut where outside a woman was wringing out rags into a bucket. Diarmuid’s stomach lurched as he saw that the cloth was tinged pink, as with blood diluted with water. She looked up at them.

“Hello, Cormac. Welcome, Brother.”

Cormac answered Diarmuid’s question before he asked it. “I’ve told them you’re a monk.” To the woman, he added, “His name is Diarmuid.”

“Diarmuid,” she repeated. “My name is Aideen.”

“He’s close friends with the wounded man. He’d like to see him if he can.”

“It should be alright. I’ll ask Mother.”

She slipped back inside the hut. Diarmuid tried to catch a glimpse inside, but the door shut too quickly.

“She’s one of Mother Órlaith’s assistants,” Cormac said. “Not her actual daughter, but she helps.”

The door opened again to the woman smiling. "Come inside."

Diarmuid barely controlled himself from shoving her aside in his rush to get inside. The hut was dark, lit only by a single window and a small, dying fire. Bunches of herbs and animal bones hung from the ceiling. Aideen stood in the corner, while another woman sat by the stove. Diarmuid only noticed all of that in passing, though, as all of his attention focused on the bed in the center of the room.

The Mute lay supine on the cot, a blanket pulled up to his chest. His skin was pale, covered in a sheen of sweat, and his eyes were closed. But, at least, his chest was slowly rising and falling.

"Oh, God," he breathed. He hurried over and dropped to his knees. His hands shook, and he hesitated before tenderly touching the Mute's hand. His flesh was so cold. Diarmuid tried to cover the Mute's hand in his own, but his fingers couldn't stretch far enough.

"I'm told you're a friend of his."

For the first time, Diarmuid turned at least part of his attention to the seated woman. Judging by her wrinkled face and long gray hair, Diarmuid guessed that this was Mother Órlaith.

"Yes." He'd been using the word "friend" all day, but it still didn't sound right to his ears. Of course, the Mute was his friend, but the word didn't even skim the surface of his feelings for the other man. He didn't know what the word would be. He knew that he loved him, but there wasn't a way to express that feeling out loud to these strangers.

"I'm very glad that he has someone who cares for him by his side. That can only help in healing."

"How is he? Is he alright? Is he—" 

"He's better than when you brought him here. The bleeding has stopped. I've sewn the wound shut. You can see his color hasn't come back yet. though. We're waiting to see. What's important now is to keep the wound from festering."

"Is he going to be alright?"

The old woman smiled softly. She placed a thin hand on his knee. "I can't say for certain what will happen. I can tell that he's strong. I'm sure that he'll keep fighting, and we'll keep doing all we can."

"You have to help him. He's a Godly man. He saved my life. He's..." He took a deep breath, staring at the Mute’s sleeping face. “I need to know that he’ll be okay.”

She patted his knee. "It’s in God’s hands now, and you can be sure that you’re not the only one praying for his safety.”

Diarmuid swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “Thank you.”

He didn’t know how long passed before Aideen spoke up in a small voice. “The man looks like a soldier, but Cormac said you’re a monk.”

“Don’t bother him with questions now, Aideen,” Órlaith chided gently.

“You’ll have a chance to hear everything tonight.”

Diarmuid had forgotten Cormac was in the hut. With an effort, he dragged his gaze from the Mute to the man standing by the door with arms crossed. “The Chief’s called a meeting to hear your story, figure out what’s happened. I figured you had enough to think about the first thing you woke up.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not going to be a trial or anything. The Chief just wants to hear your story and figure out what we’ll do next.”

Diarmuid nodded. He tried to think of something else to say, but his nerves were rattling, and he just wanted to be alone with the Mute. “Oh.”

Cormac clapped him on the shoulder and shook him. “Don’t worry. You can stay with your friend. I’ll come to get you when it’s time. Mother Órlaith, I think the boy would like to be alone with his friend.”

“Of course.” The old woman placed a hand on Aideen’s arm. “Come, dear. I need your help in the kitchen. Yell if you need anything, child.”

“Thank you. If there’s anything I can do, if I can help in anyway…”

She waved him off as she and Aideen walked to the door. “Don’t trouble yourself. You’re doing half the work of healing by caring.”

“Thank you,” he repeated, thinking it had to be the thousandth time he’d said it since he was brought to the village.

She smiled, seeming to realize it would be useless to keep assuring him, then went to the next room with Aideen. Cormac squeezed his shoulder once more, then left the house himself.

Alone in the room, Diarmuid let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He finally was able to return his full attention to the Mute. He knitted his fingers through the Mute’s, closed the limp hand in his, and watched as the bare, scarred chest slowly rose and fail.

“I promise I’ll stay here with you,” he said. “Just please stay with me. I need you. Please.”

The Mute remained unresponsive. Diarmuid raised the heavy hand to his lips, his open eyes locked on the Mute’s closed. He didn’t know what was going to happen next or what his life would be now, but his one anchor was that as long as the Mute was alive, he’d stand by him. He’d try to protect him at least nearly as much as the Mute had always protected him.


	3. Chapter 3

Waking up was like struggling to break the surface of choppy water. Awareness came in brief, shallow waves—a sound here, a streak of light there, or just the feeling of his body. Then, he fell back into nothing. 

Finally, _finally_ , consciousness came and remained. He twitched a finger and drew in a deep breath. With a massive effort, he was able to pull apart his eyelids. He blinked a few times, then set his mind to figuring out where he was.

He was inside. Above him was a thatched roof. He was lying in a small bed, covered by a thick blanket, As he looked around, he could see bunches of dried plants hanging from the ceiling and light streaming in from behind ragged curtains in the windows.

He licked his chapped lips. A cough jerked out of his chest.

The most important question slammed into his brain: _Diarmuid._ Where was Diarmuid? Was he nearby? Was he in danger? He need to find the boy now.

He tried to lift himself up on his hands, but his muscles refused to obey, and his arms only wobbled feebly. The effort drawing a long groan out of him. He was just recognizing how much his whole body, but especially his stomach, hurt, when someone came through a doorway that seemed to lead to another part of the house.

The pretty young woman’s eyes widened the moment she saw him. “You’re awake!” She rushed to his side in a flurry of skirts and curls. Immediately, there was one hand on his forehead and another gently pushing him back into the bed. The feather-light touch was enough to overpower him. “You’ve been out for about three days now. You were in a rough state when they brought you in, but you’re much better now. Your wounds are on the way to healing up, and they look in fairly good shape right now. Your eyes look clear, and your temperature is fine, so that’s good.” She jumped to her feet and bustled over to a nearby table.

He licked his lips and coughed again. He didn’t care about his own condition. He needed to know where Diarmuid was—if he was safe, if he was alive. The woman poured a cup of water from a jug, but didn’t say anything for moments that ticked on like minutes, like hours.

He couldn’t just lay there waiting for her to say something. He had to know right then. He’d broken his vow once in anger. Now, it seemed like he had no choice but to do it again.

“Your friend, the little monk, is out helping repair some fishing nets,” she said as she turned around with a cup in hand. “He’s works very hard. And just about about every second he’s not working, he’s at your side. The first few days, when we weren’t sure how things were going to go, he even insisted on sleeping beside you.

 _Oh, dear Almighty God, thank you_. Diarmuid was alive. He was nearby. He was safe. Now the Mute could be grateful that he was alive, if only because he would be able to see Diarmuid’s face again.

 “Here you are.” She lifted up his head and held the cup to his lips. With the agony of uncertainty removed, he could take the time to drink. It was only when the water touched his tongue that he realized just how thirsty he was. He guzzled the contents of the cup, even as what he couldn’t swallow spilled down his chin and cheeks. He also became aware that he was starving. 

Once he was finished, the woman wiped his mouth with her apron. “I’m sure you’ll want to see your friend now,” she said. 

He nodded frantically.

The young woman beamed. “I’ll go get him. And I’ll tell Mother Órlaith you’re awake. She’ll be so happy!” She pranced out of the room. 

He didn’t know who she was talking about, but it didn’t matter. Diarmuid was coming. He laid back on the pillow and allowed himself to shut his eyes. The pain was harder to ignore now, sharp and insistent. He could almost still feel the barbed spike plunged into his gut.

But, he knew pain. He’d known it all of his life. For years, he’d wallowed in it—inviting it, suffering it, causing it.

_Where did you come from?_

_Hell._

He could still taste de Merville’s blood in his mouth.

Light but frantic footsteps came up to the house, then the door slammed open.

The boy stood, silhouetted in the sunlight. He could only make out the barest outlines of his face. Then, Diarmuid rushed forward and threw himself to his knees in front of him.

He feebly moved his hand. Diarmuid bridged the distance and clasped his hand tight. He stared up into Diarmuid’s face, studying every inch, every line and curve. Diarmuid was smiling, but his eyes were shining with unshed tears. His first instinct was to reach up and brush them away, but he couldn’t summon enough strength to move his arm.

“Thank God, thank God, Deo gratias” Diarmuid’s voice was barely more than a gasp. He brought the Mute’s hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. “I was so scared. I thought you were—I thought you were gone. 

He leaned down to press his body over his in a gentle hug. He placed his cheek on the Mute’s chest, as if he were trying to listen to his heartbeat. The Mute took as deep a breath as he could without hurting himself and summoned up all his energy to rest his hand on the back of Diarmuid’s hair. He could smell the sweat and sea salt on the boy’s skin.

He didn’t know how long they remained like that. It felt like minutes, and he would have gladly had it go on forever.

Diarmuid pulled away, but just so that their faces were a few inches apart. The Mute swore that he could feel Diarmuid’s breath on his cheek as he spoke. “We’re in the sailor’s village. Remember the men in the boat who picked us up? He took us back here, and one of the village women healed you. She says that you’re still weak, but you’re going to be alright.”

He still had questions—about how they escaped from the Norman soldiers who had still been on the beach, about where Ciaran and the French monk were, where the Relic was—but they didn’t need answering at that moment. For now, he just wanted to stay warm and safe in Diarmuid’s arms. 

“You’re going to be alright.”

Acting without thinking, he lifted his head just enough to kiss Diarmuid’s cheek. His chapped lips just barely brushed the smooth skin. They drew in what seemed to be the same breath. When he couldn’t hold himself up even that little bit, Diarmuid followed him down.

“Can you…” He coughed and spoke in a louder voice, as if he just realized he could when he needed to. “Could I please be alone with him?”

The Mute hadn’t even noticed that there were any others in the hut. A man’s voice responded, “Of course.”

“We’ll be nearby if you need us,” a woman’s voice added.

He heard the man and woman and one other, judging by the footsteps, walk away. Then, the door shut. His eyes were already used to the dark, so he could still see Diarmuid’s face in the low light.

Diarmuid was looking away, his face creased with anxiety. He reached out his hand vaguely. Diarmuid took it and squeezed.

After several seconds, he said in a barely audible voice, “Brother Cathal is dead.”

His heart sank, even though he had thought as much, as Diarmuid hadn’t mentioned him yet. He swallowed and forced his memories about the man, the bitter but familiar sensation of grief, back for now. Now, he needed to focus on the living. He could indulge his own mourning only after taking care of Diarmuid.

“He was hit by an an arrow while we were rowing away. He looked at me, and he just… bent forward, and he was gone.” His wide, dark eyes quickly filled with tears. “Then, I… I…”

He smoothed his thumb over Diarmuid’s knuckles, the best comfort that he could give at the moment.

“I killed Brother Geraldus.”

He was glad that he had trained himself to hold back any emotion he didn’t want to show. He knew that if Diarmuid could see his shock it would crush him.

The only thing that could devastate him more than knowing Diarmuid had taken a life was learning that he had died himself. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. This wasn’t supposed to happen to him. Diarmuid was supposed to be safe from the horror of violence, at least having to commit it. Diarmuid didn’t deserve that pain, and the Mute knew that he was too good of a man not to suffer from guilt, even though the Mute knew that there had to be a justification for whatever the boy had done.

Diarmuid pulled his hand away to cover his face. “I—I was going to throw the relic into the lake.” He could hear the tears creeping into his voice. “I thought—I just thought that it couldn’t be God’s will that something this holy would cause this much pain and death. I thought that—I had to give it back to Him. Geraldus tried to stop me. He pushed me down, and he started to choke me. I could breath. And I—I didn’t think. I just… kicked him. He fell over the side, and the relic fell with him. He drowned. Oh, God!” His body shuddered with sobs. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

The pain which wrenched through him at the sight of Diarmuid’s suffering was almost worse than the metal spike in his gut. Moving as quickly as he could without causing himself too much pain, he reached up and pulled Diarmuid’s hand away. Once Diarmuid met his gaze, the Mute shook his head. He drew Diarmuid’s hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles.

He shook his head again. _You have no reason to be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re not any different in my eyes. You are still the same good, kind, beautiful, perfect man as ever._  

_I—_

Diarmuid leaned down and kissed the Mute’s hand on top of his. For a moment, in his mind, it was almost as if their hands weren’t there. Almost as if he were simply kissing his lips. 

When Diarmuid pulled away, his eyes were still wet, but he wasn’t crying. He sniffled. “I… When I get back to the monastery, I can confess. It will… it will be alright, won’t it?”

He nodded. As far as he was concerned, Diarmuid had done nothing that would require confessing. He was certain the Abbot would agree as well. But, if it would make Diarmuid feel better, than he coudn’t wait.

For a while Diarmuid just held the Mute’s hand and seemed to study every inch of his skin. He took the opportunity to stare up at Diarmuid, wishing to God that he could somehow erase every trace of pain on the young, beautiful, flawless face.

His mind drifted back to the monastery, to a time before _this_ , during that time of peace that he should have known couldn’t last.

Diarmuid had been a little over fifteen. The Mute had been fishing while he gathered urchins on a little precipice. He’d been looking away for just a moment when he’d heard a shout and then a splash.

He’d whipped his head around to see Diarmuid gone. He’d rushed over to where he’d been standing and looked down. Diarmuid had been thrashing in the water, desperately struggling to keep his head above the water. His heavy woolen robe had weighed him down. He hadn’t been certain whether or not the boy even knew how to swim.

Without a second's thought, he’d torn off his shirt and boots and jumped into the water. By the time he’d resurfaced, Diarmuid had been completely submerged.

Thankfully, Diarmuid hadn’t sunk far. He'd hooked his arms under Diarmuid’s and hauled him to the surface. Diarmuid hadn’t responded, limp in his arms. He’d spent every last bit of his strength using just his legs to propel them to the shore. Diarmuid’s face had been pale as he had laid him down in the sand and for a horrifying moment, he hadn’t been able to tell if he was breathing.

He’d pushed Diarmuid onto his side and thumped his back several times. To his relief, Diarmuid had spat out mouthfuls of water. He’d coughed and gasped, his whole body shivering. In that moment, he wouldn’t have hesitated to break his vow to tell the boy that he was okay; that he was safe and he was going to be alright. It had been so long since he had spoken, though, that the words wouldn’t come. All he had been able to do was brush the wet hair out of Diarmuid’s face and hold his hold cheeks in his hands.

When Diarmuid had looked up at him, even with his eyes glassy and dazed, he had been able to tell that Diarmuid understood as clearly as if he’d spoken the words aloud. On instinct, he’d leaned down and kissed his temple as he held Diarmuid tight. For just a few seconds, it had been an indescribable comfort just to feel Diarmuid breathing with him.

Eventually, he had gotten his head together and had focused on what he needed to do for Diarmuid. He'd stripped off his sodden outer clothing, then lifted him up and hefted him over his shoulders. The muscles in his legs had burned with every step, but he’d all but run back to the monastery.

The other monks had run to them full of shock and alarm. They’d taken Diarmuid from him and hustled him into the nearest bed. They’d covered him with just about every blanket in the monastery and pushed hot tea on him. Just as they always did when the boy was sick or injured, all the brothers had swarmed around to fuss and worry. He had stepped back to let those who were more qualified take care of him.

After it had been clear that Diarmuid would be fine, the Abbot had sought him out. He’d pulled him into a hug and patted his back.

“You’ve protected one of God’s treasures today,” he’d said solemnly. “Whatever sins you may have committed before you came to us, He is smiling on you today.” A low smile had spread across the old man’s weathered face. “Thank you.”

The thanks hadn’t mattered. He hadn’t been thinking of God or sin or salvation when he’d leapt into the water. He had been thinking about Diarmuid. Just as he had been when he raised his sword in the Hollows and when he’d walked back to the beach with his sword in one hand, shirt wrapped around the other as a near-worthless shield, completely certain that he was going to die.

He’d faced death with acceptance countless times in his life, but not until he met Diarmuid was it for any reason worth dying for.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Diarmuid took a deep breath. “Mother Órlaith, the woman taking care of you, says that you should stay in bed for the next several days, but she’s confident you’ll recover soon. The chief of the village says that we can stay here as long as we need. And, once you’re well, we can… we can head home.” 

Noticing the moment of hesitation, he squeezed Diarmuid’s hand and smiled.

To his relief, Diarmuid returned the smile. "Thank you,” he whispered

 _You don't need to thank me_ , he wanted to tell him. There was no way that he couldn't have gone back to that beach. There was no circumstance in which he wouldn't do everything that he could to protect Diarmuid. 


	4. Chapter 4

The first achievement was just sitting up. Gradually, his grimace of pain (Diarmuid was sure it showed only a tiny amount of what he was actually feeling) lessened. In the second week he was able to stand for brief periods with help.

Crundmáel and Múireann hosted Diarmuid, making sure he was fed, feeling well, and sleeping enough, with almost parental attentiveness. Most of the time he wasn’t helping with the village’s work or conducting services, he spent by the Mute’s side. He talked with him and helped Mother Órlaith and her assistant with his care.  He on one hand encouraged him and, on the other, stopped him from pushing himself too far and too fast. Several times, he ended up sleeping on the ground beside his cot.

Once the Mute was standing and walking with the help of crutches, Crundmáel and Múireann offered to let him stay in their hut. They let Diarmuid and him share a cot they’d set up in their kitchen. Diarmuid continued to be overwhelmed by their kindness. He struggled to come up with words to express his gratitude, even as they assured him they weren’t needed.

Cormac had offered an explanation one day as they were sitting together scaling fish. “They haven't been able to have any children. I think they enjoy the chance to take care of a lost little boy.”

Diarmuid had smiled at the gentle teasing.

The Mute tried to help with the work as soon as he was able--probably a bit before. Diarmuid managed to bargain him down to holding the basket while he gathered berries and other minor tasks.

It made Diarmuid infinitely happy to fall back into the old pattern of their lives: working side-by-side, Diarmuid babbling while the Mute listened with an expression that looked impassive but that Diarmuid could see the openness and attention in.

“I wish these grew around the monastery,” he said as he examined one of the dark blue berries. “I wonder if they would let us leave with a few, and we can see if the seeds will take root at home.” He thought briefly about Brother Ciarán, the herbalist, but stopped the name before it could come close to his tongue. Remembering his fallen brothers still hurt, like a stinging nettle catching on his heart. He was getting better at containing the pain, but sometimes the grief still overwhelmed him, and he curled up crying on the ground. That was only at night though; he could at least make it through the days.

The Mute grimaced, his crutches swaying.

“Sit down,” Diarmuid said, reaching out for him. The Mute let him take the crutches and help ease him to the ground. He stretched out his legs and breathed deeply through his nose.

Diarmuid wasn’t used to being the one looking after the older man. He had been barely more than a child when he first pulled the strange, battered and bloodied man from the water. He’d looked up to the Mute, regarding him with fascination and awe, eventually considering him his closest friend.

Since they’d left the monastery, his presence had been the only thing that made Diarmuid feel safe. The Mute had saved him time and time again, even being willing to throw his life aside to save Diarmuid. He hoped that eventually he could repay him.

“Do you feel better?” he asked after he’d had a few minutes to breathe.

He nodded.

On impulse, Diarmuid leaned forward and pulled him into a gentle hug. He hadn’t thought before doing it, but it felt like the right thing to do. He rested his chin on his shoulder, closed his eyes, and joined the other man in breathing the cold, clean air. The Mute wrapped his arms around Diarmuid’s back.

They had always been extremely close, but in those past few weeks, a new intimacy had grown between them. Whenever he had the chance, Diarmuid would embrace him or grab his hand, both in order to steady him or help him walk, or just on the same impulse that had led him to embrace the Mute in that field.

They slept bundled under the same blankets, pressed together as if it were colder than it was and they were trying to conserve what little heat they could. Sometimes, Diarmuid woke with cheek on the Mute’s shoulder, the top of his head on his chin. Most of the time, though, they slept with Diarmuid’s back pressed against the Mute’s chest, his arms folded around Diarmuid, holding him so that there wasn’t a hair’s breadth of space between them. Diarmuid couldn’t deny that feeling the weight and warmth of the body beside him was comforting in a way he couldn’t describe even to himself. It wasn’t as if he were worried about the Mute not making it through the night or leaving anymore—and it wasn’t _that_ cold.

Diarmuid had grown up surrounded by other men since he was a child, so he was used to close quarters. Sleeping with the Mute made him feel safe and happy, and it wasn’t as if he would impose by asking for another cot.

Still, it was strange, or at least unfamiliar, to wake up some mornings with something hard and fleshy pressing against the back of his thigh.

He knew what it was. When he’d first started waking up with _that_ part of him standing up, he’d gone to Brother Ciarán, feeling as if he were going to die of embarrassment. Smiling kindly, Ciarán explained that it was a natural function of the human body, and the same was true of the sticky stains on his clothes and blankets. It was nothing sinful or unnatural. It would only be a sin if he deliberately touched himself in that area while awake to achieve the same effect.

“Why?” he’d asked.

“Because that would be to commit the sin of Onan.”

“I don’t know that story.”

Ciarán had shown him that passage of the Bible. He’d barely understood the rudiments of what was described, but he trusted that it meant exactly what Ciarán said it did and resolved that he would never commit the sin.

Even knowing that the hardness he felt under the Mute’s tunic was just a natural reaction didn’t stop it from feeling, strange. It was a kind of physical intimacy, that he hadn’t experienced before. He was aware of the other man’s body, it’s heat and weight, in a way he didn’t think that he ever had.

And, yet, for as unfamiliar as these feelings were, they weren’t unpleasant. He didn’t want to pull away from the contact. There was a kind of lightness in his stomach, a comforting feeling that he was too consciously aware of and too distant from to fully embrace. He didn’t know what he would have to do to relax fully into it, but there was something, a voice in his head, that told him that he should under no circumstances do that.

* * *

One night, he went to bed flexing his sore hands. He’d spent the day shelling mussels, a task that had left every muscle from his fingers to wrist stiff and aching.

The Mute noticed and took Diarmuid’s hands in his. He carefully rubbed in the knots in his muscles between calloused fingers.

When Diarmuid hissed at a twinge of pain, he stopped, concern creasing his face. He raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

_Alright?_

Diarmuid nodded. “It feels nice. Thank you.”

The Mute smiled, one of his quiet, barely-there smiles Diarmuid loved, and started massaging his hands again.

As the muscles in his hands relaxed under the strong but gentle touch, Diarmuid couldn’t fight the pull of sleep. He didn’t want to either. His head settled on the pillow and his eyes slid shut. He breathed deeply and focused all of his attention on the smooth, deliberate movement of the Mute’s hands.

He wasn’t sure of the exact moment he slipped away, but he must have fallen asleep at some point, because he suddenly found himself in a different position, with no memory of moving.

He was sitting on the same bed, with the Mute seated beside him, his expression calm and open, as if it were completely natural—and in the moment Diarmuid knew that it was, he pulled his tunic up over his head. Diarmuid leaned back slightly to stare at the pale expanse of his broad back, littered with scars and quartered by the black cross.

He reached out, not aware of why, but not caring, and touched his back. The skin looked like it would be cold as stone, but instead was warm and soft under his fingers. He spread his palm wide and moved closer.

The Mute continued to look at him.

“Is it okay?” Diarmuid’s mouth asked. He didn’t know what the ‘it’ was that he was asking about.

The man nodded. He put his hands on Diarmuid’s shoulder and gently pulled him closer. Diarmuid moved both of his hands to the Mute’s chest, feeling the hard muscle shifting under his palms.

He found himself thinking about what the skin would feel like under his slips. He wondered if it would be as smooth as it felt now; if it would be as warm. His eyes drifted back to the Mute’s face, noticing every little detail in a way he hadn’t ever before. He studied where the tan of his skin contrasted with the dark of his beard. He ran his fingers from the high curve of his cheek, down to the course hair.

His fingertips stopped at the corner of the Mute’s mouth. He stared at his lips. They looked so… untouched, unlike the rest of his body that had been battered and abused.

He wanted to kiss them. He needed to know what they felt like. If he kissed the Mute’s lips everything would be alright. Everything would be as it should be.

The Mute was pulling him forward, closer and closer. At some point Diarmuid’s legs parted, so the other man’s leg was between them, pressing against him. Pressing…

His eyes snapped open, the cold making him immediately aware that he was out of his dream. He was in the same bed, but lying on his side. There was something warm and scratchy against his cheek. Eventually, his sluggish brain put it together that his cheek was buried in the Mute’s chest, clad in his rough wool tunic, not bare. Their feet were touching and the Mute had one arm draped over Diarmuid’s body. There was still the same gentle but firm pressure between his legs, the same strange sensation in his…

He sucked in a sharp breath. He was feeling the other man’s member prodding against his groin. The strange feeling, the odd heat creeping up his stomach was that part of his own body hardening in response.

The Mute’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Diarmuid’s shocked breath. The questioning eyes widened, seemingly as he became aware of the situation as well. His lips parted slightly. Diarmuid realized that he was staring at those lips. They looked as beautiful as in the dream.

As if his mind were pushing him forward before sense could catch up, he closed the few inches of space between them and kissed him on the mouth. They were both still as their lips pressed against each other. Diarmuid’s heart pounded loud and steady in his ears. The strange feeling grew more acute.

Then, sense made itself known. He pulled away, blood rushing to his cheeks in panic and shame. He knew that he should apologize for… for whatever he had just done, but his throat and tongue refused to comply.

Not letting himself register the Mute’s expression, which had to be disgusted and horrified, he flopped onto his other side. His heart was pounding, he felt sick to his stomach, and his mind was buzzing with thoughts he couldn’t pin down.

It was wrong. What he’d done was wrong. He didn’t even know what he’d done, but he knew it was terrible.

He wanted to cry, and he wanted to kiss the Mute again.

The mattress shifted as the Mute made to leave the bed.

Diarmuid’s hand shot out to grab his arm. In spite of everything, he couldn’t let him leave.

The other man stopped. He was still for a moment, then slowly settled back onto the bed. They didn’t lay close enough enough to touch this time. Diarmuid’s member still hadn’t gone down, as much as he was desperately begging it to. He wondered if the Mute was in the same state.

He should let him leave. The man must hate him. He must be even more disgusted with him than Diarmuid was with himself, as he probably knew more about whatever it was they’d done. And, still, some primitive part of him couldn’t let the Mute go. After all that they’d gone through, they needed to stay together to be safe. Everything felt wrong, and he didn’t know what he was supposed to do, but he couldn’t be alone.

His legs curled up closer to his stomach. His eyes were shut, but he was far from sleep. He listened to the shrill whine of crickets outside. A magpie shrieked somewhere in the distance, sounding as if it were personally shouting at him in anger and mockery. He could hear his own breathing and that of the Mute. He couldn’t ignore the presence of the man that he had just kissed—that he had dreamed he had touched… in that way. That he had touched while his body responded so strangely.

Somehow, the general feeling of guilt and discomfort overtook the specific memories of what he’d done. He was able to slide into a restless, tiresome sleep. Thank God, at least, he didn’t have any further dreams.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a short chapter. This honestly should have been including in the previous one, but there you. I promise the next chapter will be a respectable size.

The rest of the day was spent in gathering provisions. Diarmuid tried to just take a modet supply of bread, cheese, and water. Crundmael and Múireann, however, pushed on them generous amounts of smoked fish and dried meat and berries. Diarmuid remembered what Cormac had said about the couple and accepted the gifts graciously with a cascade of blessings. They also insisted on the two taking with them an extra set of clothes—old ones of theirs, they explained—and a warm blanket. Múireann even altered Diarmuid's to better fit his small frame. The couple, along with seemingly every other older woman in the village, tutted that he was too thin and needed to eat.

Diarmuid had been coddled and protected to a degree by his brothers, but it was nothing compared to the mothering he received from the village women.

He found himself trying to remember what he could of his own mother. In his memories, she always seemed to be either sad or frightened. He recalled vaguely how she'd tried to soothe and calm him when they left their village in the middle of the night. When he sat by her deathbed in the monastery at six years old, he was overwhelmed by emotions he was too young to truly process and comprehend.

What might have destroyed him was lessened by the family that instantly formed around him, and the purpose that a life devoted to God gave him.

The night before he and the Mute left, the whole village gathered and Diarmuid gave Mass. The villagers had repeatedly asked him to perform services which he was almost certain he was unqualified to at his station. They insisted despite his protests, though. He'd learned that the village's only priest had died several months ago, and they were starving for ritual. Their gratitude and enthusiasm convinced him to go along with their wishes, and then ask for advice or forgiveness once he arrived home. He redoubled his promises to have a new priest sent to them as soon as he returned to the monastery. There wasn't wine available for Communion, so they made do with just bread.

He was so absorbed in the ritual that he didn't notice until it was over that in the process his fingers had been a hair's breadth from the Mute's lip. It made him sick to think that sacrament could be stained by those strange and monstrous thoughts.

Dread crept over him, like he was being immersed in cold mud, at the thought that even his relationship with God could be soiled like this.

He had to stop himself from going too far down that road. he didn't even fully understand what he was feeling or thinking. What mattered was that once he was back at the monastery he could receive confession and get advice from his more senior brothers. Hopefully these thoughts were an aberration that would go away once this chaos had passed. In the meantime all that he could do was pray and not do... _that_ again.

Only when night fell, though, did he realize that there was a more immediate problem to solve. He and the Mute knelt on opposite sides of the bed praying, he couldn't suppress nervous thoughts. He didn't know how he could share a bed with the man again. What if he had another dream? What if he acted on it in the same shameful way?

"Amen." Diarmuid stood and looked deliberately down at the bed and not at the man across from him. Tentatively, he sat on the edge of the bed and waited to see what the Mute would do.

Without making eye contact, he took a blanket from the bed and made to lie down on the ground.

Diarmuid grabbed his arm. “No.” The Mute blinked in confusion. “Please. Don’t.”

Painfully aware of every movement, Diarmuid lay down on the bed and settled under the remaining blanket. He saw the same confusion warring on the Mute’s face. Finally, he laid down beside Diarmuid, on top of the one blanket and setting the other over both of them.

He felt himself relax just a bit. Somehow the thin layer of wool was a comforting barrier between them. They could be close, but not touch in any way that felt… wrong.

They lay back-to-back in the small bed. Diarmuid was conscious of himself and his body in ways he hadn’t been before. He was grateful that the Mute was there with him, for the weight and warmth of the body beside him.

Diarmuid squeezed his eyes shut. He wished he were more physically tired, then it would be easier to drift off and not remember last night.

Kissing the other man had been wonderful. It had been like nothing he’d felt in his nineteen years. The same was true of the dream—that strange, inexplicable dream that he wished he could forget. It had felt good, but in a way he knew had to be wrong. It was… it was the same feeling he’d had for the Mute before, but somehow also different.. It was like when he noticed a beautiful note in a hymn he’d heard a hundred times before.

Except, that dream and that kiss hadn’t been beautiful. It had felt beautiful, but he knew, even though he couldn’t explain to himself why, that it was wrong.

He fell asleep silently reciting Ave Marias. Still, even with the prayer in his mind, he couldn’t smother the stupid hope that he would see the Mute in his dreams.


	6. Chapter 6

He woke up with Diarmuid’s body pressed against his, chest to chest, the head of dark curls tucked under his chin. The layer of wool between them didn’t feel like any real separation with Diarmuid’s cock hard against his thigh.

He controlled a sigh. Diarmuid would be swamped with guilt if he woke up in this statke. They had woken up in bed with morning wood before--unavoidably when they were two men sharing a tiny bed, one of them nineteen years old--but that simple bodily reaction would have painful significance in his mind after the night before last.

He wished that Diarmuid had just let him sleep on the ground. The ground would be so much simpler. 

He had been shocked when Diarmuid had kissed him that night. When he'd woken up to the heat and pressure of the body against his, the wide brown eyes, the face close enough to his that he could feel breath on his lips, at first he had thought that he was still dreaming. When Diarmuid had kissed him like that, he'd known that it had to be a dream. The kiss was soft and hesitant, but also charged with passion in a way that he couldn't remember any of their physical contact ever having been before.

He'd wanted to lean into the kiss. He'd wanted to lose himself in the wonderful feeling of warmth and closeness.

And then Diarmuid had pulled away, clearly as shocked as the man he had kissed. The shock was tinged with horror and intense shame. When Diarmuid had stammered out an apology, the Mute was certain that there hadn't been any innocent explanation he'd simply missed.

Diarmuid hadn't let him leave the bed then, either. Maybe he had been so frightened and desperate for help that his mind couldn't acknowledge that his protection was also the source of his fear. So, they'd lain back-to-back in silence. He'd been painfully hard, his fists clenched with the effort to do nothing and ignore it. He'd waited for what felt like hours before he was certain Diarmuid was fully asleep, then crept out of the house.

Judging by the gray sky, it had been shortly before dawn. The chill air had been painful, but welcome on his overheated skin. He'd walked several minutes into the woods before sitting against a tree, putting his hands between his legs, and furiously beat off.

He'd tried to keep his thoughts far away from the village, but it had been useless. His mind came back to the image of the pale, slender body moving underneath him, beautiful eyes the color of strong tea looking up at him with passion and devotion.

When he'd reached his climax his whole body tensed and he let out a deep groan that frightened a bird out of the tree. Afterwards, he'd sat with his face buried in his hands, motionless apart from his shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths, until the sun rose. Finally, when he'd thought he had his body and mind vaguely collected, he'd walked back to the village.

That night hadn't been the first that he had spent stewing in his shameful lust as he laid in bed beside Diarmuid. He had almost made peace with the desperate longing to pull Diarmuid to him, to undress him, to feel every inch of his body. He wanted to see Diarmuid writhe in ecstasy beneath him, see him come undone by his hand. He fantasized about pressing himself into that soft, warm body. He wanted to make love to Diarmuid and at the same time fuck him into the cot like their lives depended on it.

He couldn't even say that these fantasies had only appeared when they began sleeping together in the village. The sinful thoughts had been there long before they left the monastery.

It felt like it had happened overnight that Diarmuid changed from an awkward gangling boy to a beautiful young man. One day, he'd been watching Diarmuid stripped to his breeches and washing, and suddenly found himself overwhelmed by mad want. In his bed at night he couldn't stop his hand from drifting to his cock as he fantasized about his young friend.

He'd put down the sword and taken his vow of silence as a sign to God that he was abandoning his former bloodlust. It seemed there were other unholy lusts he hadn't ridden himself of.

He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, though, that he would never actually act on that want. He would never touch Diarmuid in the way that he longed to. The little monk had managed to live a live in purity and accordance with God's laws, and he deserved to continue as such. Beyond that, it had seemed impossible that Diarmuid would even share his perverse passions.

And then this.

Then this.

Maybe—no: probably—his guarded upbringing had been a disservice in this area. Other boys reaching his age had some understanding of the new feelings that appeared. Diarmuid's ignorance rendered him helpless. The Mute hated that he had become a player in Diarmuid's inner turmoil. He hated even more that there was an ugly part of him that wanted to take advantage Diarmuid's confusion to satisfy his own desires.

But, he would never. He would rather God strike him dead before he harmed Diarmuid in any way. Instead, he would do nothing: act oblivious as Darmuid naturally sorted through his confusion.

He would do _nothing_ , he told himself as Diarmuid shifted beside him. Diarmuid’s thigh brushed against his cock though the blankets, and his body responded without his consent. He sucked in a breath and gritted his teeth. Carefully, he shuffled away, so Diarmuid’s head was still pressed to his chest, but their lower bodies were separated.

He couldn’t fully go back to sleep, but he did manage to rest and let his mind drift away—until Diarmuid cuddled against him again. He kept moving away, until he was on the very edge of the bed until he had to admit there was no way he could stop clinging to him. He focused on remembering the bits of Greek he’d learned until his body relaxed.

Diarmuid, however, was still hard when he woke up. He shuffled back, clearly embarrassed. The Mute didn’t acknowledge it, only smiling at him as he had when they woke up in bed together before the kiss.

Although the shame didn’t totally leave his face, he looked a little more relaxed. “Good morning.”

He nodded. Inches from Diarmuid's beautiful face, his soft lips, he was hit with a desperate urge to kiss him that took his breath away. He had to physically restrain himself and hoped to God that the effort didn’t show.

They both pulled themselves out of bed, each on their own side.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Diarmuid said, before slipping out of the hut.

Once Diarmuid was gone, he let out a heavy breath he didn’t know that he had been holding. Needing to lose himself in work, he set to starting a fire and preparing tea. It was a reminder of the quiet domesticity of the monastery.

He’d never thought there would be a point in his life where he would become accustomed to domestic life.

Diarmuid returned to help him put together breakfast. Crundmael and Múireann greeted them with warm smiles when they walked into the room.

“Bless you,” she said. “You’ve been so good to us. You could at least rest on your last day here.”

“We indebted for your hospitality,” Diarmuid told her with perfect humility.

“You’ve paid it back in full,” Crundmael said. He ruffled Diarmuid’s hair, drawing a bright smile from the young man. Over Diarmuid’s head, he made eye contact with the Mute and his expression became more serious. He read the message easily: _look after him_.

The morning meal passed with Múireann forcing as much food as she could on him and Diarmuid, nattering about how he was too small and needed to be fattened up. He watched attentively, taking pleasure in the way Diarmuid smiled and allowed himself to be the center of attention. It was good to see him happy and relaxed.

The village bustled around them as they prepared to leave, making sure that they were laden with food, blankets, skins of water, and other odds and ends. A woman ran up to Diarmuid and breathlessly asked him to bless the village’s children once more before he left. Diarmuid cast him a quick glance.

The Mute knew that as long as he’d been in the village, Diarmuid had been conflicted about taking on duties he thought were beyond his station. He gave him a reassuring smile, though. Whatever doctrinal missteps he might have been making, his heart was pure and only motivated out of love. That was more than could be said of many priests and monks. Regardless, Confession would always be there.

Diarmuid returned the smile, before turning and following the woman.

He was watching Diarmuid walk away when a hand landed on his shoulder. He reacted on instinct, turning on his heel, ready to fight before he even saw his assailant.

Cormac raised both hands. “I see I should have announced myself first.”

He relaxed his posture and hoped that his expression sufficiently conveyed his apology.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you before you leave.” He put a hand on his shoulder again and pulled him forward, subtly making clear that the conversation wasn’t optional.

He followed Cormac away from the center of the village to the docks, where they could be assured of privacy. Cormac sat on the hull of a fishing boat lying upturned on the shore. The Mute followed the unspoken invitation to sit beside him.

Cormac took a small leather flask from inside his coat. He removed the stopper, then took a deep drink. The Mute accepted the flask when it was offered and took a sip of wine. He wasn’t certain how to respond to the man’s prolonged silence. He didn’t mind when a silence was solemn or contemplative, but this one was charged with words about to be said. All that he could do was sit and wait.

Finally, Cormac spoke. “The boy. He told me that you looked out for him while you were traveling from the monastery; that you saved his life when you were attacked in the forest.”

He nodded.

“That’s why you went back to that beach when you knew you there was no way you were going to survive. It wasn’t anything to do with honor or God. All you were thinking about was protecting us—well, protecting him.”

Again, all that he could do was nod. He couldn’t summon up any of the guilt that he knew he should feel. He was supposed to have found redemption and salvation in devoting himself to love for God and mankind. Instead, his life had become defined by love for _a_ man.

“I want you to understand that the boy thought he was going to die when he went back for you. He went back because he would rather die beside you than live alone. Now, look, I don’t know who in the hell you are and where in the hell you came from. I don’t know how you learned to kill like you did back there. I get a feeling it has to do with the same reason you’ve decided not to say a word. You seem like a decent man. Obviously, since I trusted you enough to bring you into my village after seeing what you did.”

He paused for a second, staring out at the lake. “Neither you or the boy thought for a moment before deciding your life didn’t matter without each other. I want you to understand what that means. I’ve never had that kind of…" He paused, silently searching for a word. "...Connection with anyone. I think most people don’t have it with anyone their whole lives. You have it with that boy.” He shook his head. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that. But, I can’t stand the idea of him being hurt. You be… be careful with him. You could break his heart in a way that can’t ever be fixed. Easy.”

 _I would never hurt him. Never_. It was rare that he had to fight the urge to speak. In that moment, though, those words were on the tip of his tongue, barely trapped behind his teeth. He would never hurt Diarmuid. Just the thought made him sick. He’d rather die.

Cormac was still fixing him with a flinty gaze. He nodded slowly. “I get the feeling that’s the last thing you’d ever want to do.”

He could only nod himself, the gesture not even scraping the surface of how true the man was.

Cormac clapped a heavy hand on his father and shook him. “I’m going to be your guide. I’ll take you across the lake and lead you toward a main road that’ll take you where you need to go.” He heaved himself up to his feet with a groan. The Mute followed him.

“It’ll lead you toward another village. We trade with them, so just mention my name and they’ll direct you where to go next.” His lip curled in a crooked smile. “Though I suppose it’ll be young Diarmuid doing the mentioning.”

He was shocked to feel the ghost of a smile cross his own face.

As they walked back to the village center, Cormac explained what he thought he’d gathered about their route from Diarmuid’s description of where the monastery was located. He listened intently. The sailor described about a ten day journey. There were more direct routes they could take, but the one they’d planned avoided as many potential hazards as possible.

When they returned to the village, they found Diarmuid leading a prayer with a group of villagers. He hung back, treasuring the peaceful look on Diarmuid’s face as he stood immersed in spiritual communion. His closeness to God, the purity of his faith, was so beautiful it made his heart swell.

That sense of beauty darkened at the sudden thought that Diarmuid’s shame at what was happening between them might interfere with Diarmuid’s relationship with God. He might come to doubt his worthiness as a servant of the Lord, guilty for the feelings he couldn’t control, that he shouldn’t blame himself for.

_Never hurt him._

He swallowed down that horrible thought. Diarmuid was strong, and he was young. He wouldn’t lose his love for God. The Mute wouldn’t allow that to happen, whatever pain it might cause him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize I've been pretty badly flubbing the differences between priests and monks so far. I went back and did some editing in previous chapters that I hope helps. I'm not a Catholic myself and definitely not an expert on the Medieval Irish church, so please, forgive any mistakes. Thanks!


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